


Of a Feather

by DoctorTrekLock



Series: Resolution19 [30]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, M/M, Wing Grooming, Wings, molting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 12:58:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19768681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: There was smoke in the air.Crawly huddled further into the crevice he had found. The hooting and screaming of the celebrating demons echoed off the stone, but he was far enough from the main point of revelry that he could hide here, unnoticed in the dark haze.The cacophony died down for a moment, before raising to new heights in a shower of cheering, and Crawly knew one more of the newly minted demons had thrown the remains of his white plumage into the bonfire.Or, 6 Times Crowley Molted Alone and 1 Time He Didn't Have To





	Of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImprobableDreams900](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/gifts).



> Prompt: 5 Times Crowley Molted Alone and 1 Time He Didn't Have To  
> Source: ImprobableDreams900  
> Title: "Of a Feather: A Brief History of American Birding" by Scott Weidensaul (book)
> 
> Originally posted July 11, 2019 on [Tumblr](https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/186215291012/of-a-feather-july-11-2019)
> 
> Everything I know about molting, I learned from google and NorthernSparrow's amazing fic [Flight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749230/chapters/3737336).

1.

There was smoke in the air.

Not that there was a lot of air to begin with, seeing as this was Hell and all, but what there was was opaque with thick, dark smoke.

Crawly huddled further into the crevice he had found. The hooting and screaming of the celebrating demons echoed off the stone, but he was far enough from the main point of revelry that he could hide here, unnoticed in the dark haze.

The cacophony died down for a moment, before raising to new heights in a shower of cheering, and Crawly knew one more of the newly minted demons had thrown the remains of his white plumage into the bonfire.

Another wave of dark smoke wafted past his hiding place, the magic sunk into the quills giving the smoke an acrid quality unfound in the remains of mortal feathers. Crawly squeezed himself further into the crevice, choking on smoldering divinity.

His own wings twinged, new pin feathers making his existing plumage itch. Normally, Crawly would pull out the old, ragged feathers, making way for new, sleek ones to grow and unfurl. At least, he assumed that’s what he would normally do. Angels may have had wings, but none had molted until now - they appeared to be following the examples of the birds that roosted in the Garden.

This wasn’t an annual ritual to renew worn feathers, however. This was divine retribution. Angels had never molted, but it appeared now that demons might.

Another burst of cheering and wave of dark smoke pushed Crawly back against the wall again, bringing his attention sharply back to the itch in his wings. He had long prided himself on his neat wings, but couldn’t bring himself to comb through and pull out the battered feathers.

The ones he would be pulling out were white. And the ones that were growing in behind them were black.

Crawly hadn’t meant to Fall. He hadn’t. And he wasn’t sure he could bear the eternal reminder that he’d thrown his lot in with a bad crowd. Every time he caught a glimpse of his wings now, the dark stain across his feathers would drive the point home yet again that he had Fallen from the sight of his Father. If he had his way, Crawly would keep his existing feathers, agonizing itch or not.

A sudden shout went up and Crawly jumped. As his wings brushed the rough rock he was pressed against, loose feathers fell free of their neighbors, leaving gaps in his wings and white littered across the dark stone floor.

Crawly hesitantly reached down and picked up his wayward feathers. Two primaries and a pair of secondaries, each nearly as long as his arm. The edges of the vane were worn and frayed, the once-brilliant white faded and stained. But they were still white, and had once gleamed with ethereal divinity. Now, Fallen and fallen, the feathers were dull and matte, with no hint save their size that they were anything other than the feathers of any Earthly bird.

As the cheering grew louder, a thought suddenly occurred to Crawly. He had heard a rumor that the Morningstar would soon be sending a demon up to "cause some trouble." If he made sure _he_ was that demon... He turned one of the primaries over in his hands, absently fingering the ragged edge. These feathers were nearly indistinguishable from ordinary ones, so as long as he never told a soul...he could, maybe, perhaps... _keep_ one of his.

His hands clutched the feathers tighter reflexively, the quills flexing under his fingers. He would have to make sure to never breathe a word to anyone. The other denizens of Hell would shred his being to nothingness if they knew how tightly he was clinging to any traces of divinity. He would never be able to hide of his primaries effectively: the flight feathers were among his longest and would never pass for those of a normal bird.

Crawly cast a critical eye over one of his wings, the gaps from loose white feathers easier to ignore with his new plan in mind. The secondaries were also long, but one of the tertials might work... He ran his free hand over the short row of tertials until he found one high on his wing, close to the joint and slightly awkward to reach. It wasn't new by any stretch, but it had been partially protected by its neighboring feathers, so it wasn't nearly as ragged as its fellows. It was small enough to tuck away in a discreet pocket, but not too small. It was perfect.

Crawly ran his fingers reverently over its symmetrical length before grabbing it gently and tugging, hoping it was loose. It wasn't. Another wave of noxious smoke filtered its way into his hiding place, and Crawly knew he didn't have the time required to wait for it to fall out naturally. He gritted his teeth and gripped the quill firmly before pulling in a sharp tug.

He gasped, the stabbing pain shooting deep into the bone, where the feather was still rooted. It hadn't budged. Crawly let his breath out in an aggravated hiss, then shifted his grip and tried again, yanking as hard as he could. The feather tore loose, leaving a dark throbbing pain in the flesh of his wing. Crawly hissed, breathing sharply through his teeth. After a few seconds, he straightened, leaning back against the wall as much as he dared with his damaged wing.

He examined his prize. The feather hadn't been damaged, but there was blood at the tip of the quill where he had uprooted it. He cleaned it with a miracle and conjured a small clean cloth, which he used to gently wrap the feather with shaking fingers. He tucked it carefully into his clothing, just over his heart, triple checking that it wouldn't fall loose or become accidentally visible if he shifted.

Then Crawly sank down to sit at the bottom of his crevice, hugging his knees tightly in an attempt to keep his hands from shaking. He wrapped his ragged wings around himself, trying to block out the sounds of delighted demons and the scent of burning feathers. In a moment, he would have to start combing through his wings to pull free any loose feathers. He would need to saunter to the bonfire and throw his white feathers in, renouncing his angelic past irrevocably. He would need to inveigle his way into Lucifer's good graces, enough to get the mission topside. He would need to be, in short, in top form. But first he could sit here and mourn the loss of something he didn't know he could lose.

Just for a minute.

2.

Crowley frowned and rolled his shoulders. Something didn’t seem right. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something felt...off.

He rolled his shoulders again, but it didn’t seem to help. There was just something...an _itch_ —

"Crowley, are you even listening to me?" The angel almost looked exasperated, which was odd, since Crowley’d gotten used to him looking angry at this point in the proceedings.

"Sorry," Crowley apologized, lying badly. "Where were we? Up to the smiting already? Or were you still working on listing my sins?" He bared his teeth in a salesman’s smile.

The angel sighed. "Well now it hardly seems worth it." His bronze sword slumped, until the tip was pointed harmlessly at the ground.

The angel Aziraphale had been Crowley’s on-and-off nemesis for a thousand years, give or take. If the demon had to pick an archenemy, he supposed "overly fussy angel" would do.

Crowley had first met Aziraphale during the whole snafu with the Garden. After that, he hadn't seen him for almost two hundred years. Crowley had been trying to encourage a little greed by convincing merchants that _just under_ six talents of grain was the same thing _as_ six talents of grain, so really, there was no harm in charging the same for both. Aziraphale had shown up out of nowhere and taken umbrage at it for some reason, and that had been that. (Crowley still thought longingly of the sleek dark hair of that corporation. Hell had never quite gotten the same shade since.)

He'd run into the angel a dozen times since then. Each time, Aziraphale had managed to thwart Crowley's latest bit of creativity (which was irritating), but had only successfully discorporated Crowley six of those (which was much less so). This was their fourteenth encounter since the Garden and Crowley had hopes of keeping his 50-50 survival rate intact.

Of course, that would only work as long as Crowley could keep Aziraphale's sword pointed firmly away from him.

"Sorry," Crowley said easily, slightly more genuine this time. As much has he hated running into the angel, he had to admit that he made things more interesting. "I've just got this damnable itch between my shoulder blades and it's distracting as Somewhere."

Aziraphale brightened. "You too?" he asked. "I've been wondering if I've been imagining it. No matter how much I scratch, it doesn't seem to help." He looked a little distraught at that.

Crowley just gaped. Whatever he'd been expecting from engaging Aziraphale in conversation, it wasn't that. The angel almost seemed... _companionable_. A far cry from how he had looked with a blade to Crowley's throat.

Crowley resolved not to bring up the Babel thing again, just in case Aziraphale would happen to remember how angry he was supposed to be right now. (Crowley'd gotten slightly squashed when the Tower came down and everything, so it's not like he hadn't been punished for it already.)

He cleared his throat. "It sort of feels like it's itching _inside_ of you," he offered. "Like it's not on the skin at all."

"Exactly!" Aziraphale exclaimed. By now, he was leaning on his sword as if he'd forgotten it was there entirely. "Like it's somewhere else altogether."

"Sort of feels like when I was molting," Crowley said absently, keeping a close eye on the sword. The tip was beginning to sink into the soft ground under Aziraphale's weight, and if the angel had to pull it loose, he might remember it was there. Crowley was trying to figure out a way to support the tip with a miracle without the angel noticing, when he realized what he had said.

He froze. He hadn't meant to say that. He had resolved to never mention that month again. Aside from checking every century or so that his single white tertial was still safely hidden in a hollow under a rock outside Eden, he hadn't thought about it since. He had kept his dark wings out of sight as much as possible and tried to forget they were ever any other color.

Aziraphale didn't seem to have noticed his panic. "That's it!" he shouted, snapping his fingers in delight. "You're right, my dear demon; this is just like molting!" Aziraphale looked relieved to have figured it out. "I can't believe I hadn't realized," he told Crowley conversationally. "It seems so simple when you say it."

Crowley just nodded numbly. Did...did the angel just imply he'd _also_ molted? That it hadn't just been the demons who had been stripped of their original feathers? ...and had the angel just called him _dear_?

There were way too many parts of this conversation to digest right now, not least of which was that he was apparently _molting_. _Again_.

"I have to go," he blurted. Aziraphale looked taken aback, but before he could stop him or say anything, Crowley had turned and darted off, trying to get as far from the angel as he could. He could have turned into a snake and slithered away, but he wasn't keen on reminding Aziraphale of the Garden thing. And the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was pull out his wings.

So he turned and ran. No, it wasn't the most dignified of responses, but sometimes a demon doesn't have a lot of options.

3.

Crowley didn't see Aziraphale for two hundred and fifty-seven years after the Babel Incident, as he had taken to calling it in his head (both for the Tower and the unsettling conversation that had ensued). In that time, he had pointedly avoided the subject of molt, even in his own mind. After he ran into Aziraphale again in Uruk, he pointedly avoided it there too.

Aziraphale didn't mention the exchange either, though Crowley's survival rate had increased from 50-50 to 70-30 and he was even edging into 80-20 territory by the end of the millennium.

The word "dear" did not make a reappearance.

A thousand years after the Babel Incident, Crowley was convincing the newest Mentuhotep that a temple to Montu-Ra in Thebes wouldn't _necessarily_ anger Thoth when a slight twinge that he had brushed off revealed itself to be more of an _itch_ than a twinge, and an ethereal one at that.

He locked himself in his chambers at the pharaoh's palace. When he emerged, four weeks later and freshly molted, he refused to tell anyone what he had been doing or what the smudge of dark, acrid ash was from in the center of his floor.

4.

"I'm not sure David quite has the stones for this," Crowley said idly.

Next to him, Aziraphale sighed. "Hush," he admonished. He paused. "And that was a terrible pun."

Crowley snorted gently. "It's as good a pun as you could hope to find and you know it."

Aziraphale just sniffed primly, which Crowley took as agreement.

The pair were perched on a bluff just above the main show: David v. Goliath. Nominally, Crowley was there to support the Philistine, but Aziraphale had this whole thing with a slingshot planned and the kid was kinda cute, so Crowley decided Hell was going to gracefully fold on this one.

The crowd was really starting to get revved up when Crowley broke the companionable silence that had fallen. "Hey, angel," he started casually.

"Hmm?" Aziraphale asked, only half listening, his focus on the figures below them.

"I--" he broke off. "Do you--" He stopped. How did he want to put this? He was about to give up on the whole thing entirely - what on earth had he been thinking, bringing it up at all - when the angel turned to him with concern across his face.

"Crowley?" he asked gently. "Is everything alright?"

Behind Aziraphale, Crowley could see the boy leaning back and readying his slingshot.

"I--"

The boy let loose and a great cheer went up, deafening both angel and demon for a moment as Goliath fell dead to the ground.

"My wings are itching," he managed at last through the cacophony.

Aziraphale looked relieved. "Oh, is that all, you silly dear. I was worried it was something serious." He turned back to the center of the action and frowned. "Is it over already? No matter," he turned back to Crowley. "Are you sure that's all that's bothering you, my dear?"

"Yes," Crowley said after a moment of difficulty. It had taken a minute for him to recover after both Aziraphale's unconcerned response and the word "dear" reappearing. Twice. "I just, er, wanted to let you know," he said awkwardly.

This had gone much smoother in his head. He silently blessed himself for thinking the angel's response would be - what? Gracious? Sympathetic? It's not like Aziraphale knew what molting meant to Crowley or how much it had taken for him to make the admission.

They watched the armies for a moment, but Crowley could feel Aziraphale still mulling over their conversation in his mind. The Israelites were still cheering and a few had actually lifted David up on their shoulders in glee. But as they watched, the Philistines turned and fled, the majority of the Israelite army in hot pursuit.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said slowly. "Was there any particular reason you wanted me to know?" The _that you've started molting again_ went unsaid.

"No," Crowley croaked. Then he cleared his throat. "No reason, Aziraphale. Just making conversation." He stood up quickly and started making his way down the bluff. "Gotta get going, you know, need to tell Hell what went down with the Philistine thing," he called back, not looking at the angel.

"Right," he heard Aziraphale say softly. Then, louder, and almost tentative, he added "I'll see you later?"

Crowley paused at the bottom of the hill, only a few stragglers left now from the large crowds that had gathered. He looked back up at his archenemy. Aziraphale was still perched on the edge where he and Crowley had been sitting. The angel's hands were folded neatly in his lap, but his shoulders were stiff. "Yeah." Crowley's throat was dry. "I'll be around. Just," he added, "don't count on me for the next six weeks or so, there's a chap."

Aziraphale looked relieved and the tension bled out of his shoulders. "I'll see you later," he repeated, firmer this time.

Crowley just gave him a wave of acknowledgement and walked away, letting out a slow breath. That could have gone much worse. Now he just had to find a nice, isolated corner of Hell to hole up in for a month. Easy peasy.

5.

Crowley could feel the tell-tale itch in his wings.

He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench in Samaria's finest drinking establishment. He tried to tune back into what Aziraphale was saying.

"--upid law, stupid census. Who even needs to know how many - hic - many people there are? Jus' gonna keep moving around anyway." The angel was ranting about that census-thing, Crowley recalled. Something about having to move everything 70 miles just after he'd gotten everything in place.

"I'd just finished with the star," Aziraphale exclaimed. "Now I have to move it because _Someone_ ," he glared at some indeterminate point across the bar, "decided to _move_ everything. Bloody Quirrr'nius," he muttered.

"Bloody Quirinius," Crowley agreed. Then something occurred to him. "Wasn't it...whatsssit... _foretold_ that it'd be Bethlehem?" He squinted at Aziraphale across the table.

The angel glared at him. "Didn't think they'd follow through with it," he groused. "Not after the carpenter was living in _bloody Nazareth_ ," he said loudly, raising his voice and slamming his cup on the table. A few of the other patrons glanced over, but it was loud enough in the bar that their conversation when mostly unnoticed. Everyone else was complaining about having to travel for the census as well.

Crowley nodded absently, his wings itching. He rolled his shoulders, but it didn't help. "Angel," he said abruptly. "How do angels molt?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale hummed, thrown by the sudden topic change. "Molting? Like with the wings and feathers and things?" he clarified.

Now that he'd started this line of questioning, Crowley realized he really did want to know. "Yesss," he hissed firmly. "With the wings and feathers and things. Molting," he added again, in case that would help clear things up.

Aziraphale leaned heavily on one elbow, propping his head in his hand. "'S same as birds," he offered. "It gets all itchy, then the old feathers fall out and new ones grow in. Damnably uncomfortable," he confided in Crowley. "Hurts like Somewhere."

Crowley shook his head impatiently. "I know that, Azzzir'phil," he slurred. "What I mean 's how do _angels_ do it? How d'you, y'know." He gestured expansively with his cup, sloshing date wine sloppily across the table.

"Ohhh," Aziraphale nodded loosely, almost knocking his arm over. "How do _angels_ \--" At Crowley's enthusiastic nod, he continued. "I'm sure 's a lot like Hell," Aziraphale informed him. "'Cept maybe without Raphael hovering," he said thoughtfully. "She worries," he told Crowley. "Not that she needs to," he continued without waiting for a response. "Gabriel kee - hic - keeps a close eye on us, since we're posted to - hmm - to Earth."

Aziraphale rambled on, not noticing the way Crowley had crumpled slightly at the angel's words. "Most of the Earth-angels molt in Heaven, though," he commented. "They all have - hmm - mates up there. Mates molt together. So I don't see them much. 'Specially not during molting." He shook his head. "Wouldn't want to see them anyway," he muttered. "Then I wouldn't get to see Crowley. Crowley!" he said, as if suddenly remembering the demon was there. "Crowley! What were we talking about?" He frowned. Before Crowley could say anything, the angel slammed his palm on the table in realization. "Molting! That's it! Crowley, is Heaven a lot like Hell?"

In the face of Aziraphale's beaming smile, Crowley wasn't sure how to break the news to him. "Yeah, angel, just like Hell," he said weakly, thinking that that wasn't like Hell at all. Not with the four-thousand-year-old smell of burnt feathers still lingering in the stone. Not with Hasturs and Belials waiting around corners to break the wings of molting demons at their most vulnerable. Not with the memory of watching the last traces of his divinity vanish in hellfire.

Aziraphale's smile faded slowly, a confused frown replacing it. "Crowley?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

He cleared his throat. "'Course, angel," he said, decided that he really hadn't wanted to know after all.

Aziraphale blinked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "'S not alright at all. I should sober up."

Before he could, Crowley stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Don't."

Aziraphale frowned at the hand on his arm. "Why not?" he asked slowly. "'S obviously not alright."

"Becaussse," Crowley said, the truth tripping off his tongue before he could stop it. "If you sssober up, then I have to. And I don't want to remember thisss conversssation."

He kept his eyes on his cup, not wanting to see the pity in Aziraphale's eyes.

He heard the angel clear his throat roughly. "Crowley," he started. Then "my dear." Then a moment later, he patted Crowley's hand and stood up, pulling out of his grip and leaving Crowley sitting alone at the table.

Crowley had just resigned himself to leaving the bar a sad drunk when two thunks sounded on the table in front of him. He quickly looked up to see Aziraphale sitting down across from him again, two new cups of wine on the table and a look of steely determination in his eye.

The angel lifted one cup in a toast. "To not remembering this," he toasted firmly.

After a moment, Crowley fumbled for the other. "To not remembering," he echoed.

They didn't talk about it again. Crowley molted alone.

6.

There were feathers all over the floor. All of them were Crowley's. Long, dark primaries and secondaries; smaller, symmetrical tertials; and dozens and dozens of short, fluffier coverlets.

He groaned and rolled over on the bed. It had been a long, difficult month, but at least it was over now. Molting on Earth was more painful than molting in Hell or, presumably, in Heaven, but he hadn't been able to face going back again. Not after the last time.

Regardless of what he had told Aziraphale that night, there wasn't enough alcohol in Samaria to drown out that conversation. When the itching had gotten unbearable, he had dutifully returned to Hell.

In a word, it had been, well, _Hell_. Ensconced in a small crevice once again (a different crevice, of course, so as to reduce the risk of someone finding him), he had spent the month waiting for an archdemon to track him down or Hastur to find him. He had nearly regrown all his feathers when he had heard a commotion from around the corner, which had turned out to be Gamigin and Astaroth holding down an imp and ruthlessly yanking out newly regrown flight feathers, rendering the small demon flightless for the next thousand years.

So no, Crowley couldn't face one more molt in Hell.

Especially after hearing Aziraphale go on about Heaven last time. Angels molting in pairs? Under the watchful eye of not one, but two archangels, both with only the well-being of their charges in mind? Yeah, Crowley wasn't going back to Hell after that.

_The angels have mates up there. Mates molt together._

Aziraphale's drunken words had been haunting Crowley for a millennium. He had wanted, oh he had _wanted_ , so _so_ badly when Aziraphale had said that. Crowley had been a demon for four thousand years, but even he hadn't known he was capable of such jealousy. 

He had seen the angel a dozen times since Bethlehem. At first, the question hovering on the tip of his tongue had been _Will you molt with me?_

Then the thought had occurred to Crowley, sometime around the crucifixion, that perhaps Aziraphale would say no, not because he didn't like Crowley, but because he already had someone to molt with. The thought had nestled in the back of his mind and wouldn't let go.

It became so distracting that Crowley accidentally blurted it out while Aziraphale was telling him about some new history of the Franks that was being written. "Do you have a mate?"

Aziraphale had blinked strangely at him and said "Of course not, my dear, don't be absurd." And that had been that.

It had taken another two hundred years for the demon to realize that the relief he had felt at that response hadn't been because Aziraphale might still be willing to molt with him, but because it meant Aziraphale didn't have a mate. And Crowley was very happy that Aziraphale didn't have a mate.

Three decades after that, it occurred to Crowley that the reason he was happy Aziraphale didn't have a mate was because _Crowley_ wanted to be his mate.

By the time the Carolingians realized they weren't actually speaking Latin anymore, Crowley had resolved to ask Aziraphale to mate with him and molt with him.

The next time he saw the angel, however, had been just after the testimony against Pope John XII at the Synod of Rome. Crowley had known that Aziraphale hadn't been happy with the direction of the papacy as of late, and Crowley had to admit he had played a small part in that. He suspected that the last straw for the angel had been the multiple accusation of the pope "toasting the devil with wine."

Aziraphale had traveled down to Rome specifically to meet with Crowley. He had only stayed for five minutes.

"I thought you had changed." He hadn't looked at Crowley. "Perhaps I was wrong." Before Crowley could defend himself, _it's just business_ shaping itself in his mouth, Aziraphale had continued. "I'm not so sure we should see each right now, Crowley," he had said delicately.

The word "dear" had not made an appearance in the entire conversation.

That had been forty years ago.

Just before his molt truly began, when the itch was just beginning to appear in the roots of his longest feathers, he had gone to the abbey at Cluny, where Aziraphale had been holed up for the better part of the century, working on monastic reforms that Crowley could see now were a reaction to his own actions with the papacy.

When he had asked for Aziraphale, the monks had told him quite firmly that their brother was not receiving any visitors. "Especially," the monk had said with a pointed look, "not any from Rome."

"Maybe," Crowley said aloud now, the only audience his own fallen feathers and newly molted wings, "we should put something in writing. Because," he told the ceiling vehemently. "It was _just business_. Nothing personal. Aziraphale should have known that," he added quietly.

Maybe in another decade or so, Aziraphale would be more receptive. In the meanwhile, Otto owed him a favor and a beautifully illuminated gospel book in the latest fashion could never go awry with Aziraphale.

+1.

Crowley winced at the ache in his wings. He stretched them in an attempt to ease the pain, but it only served to reawaken sections he had managed to forget about. As he stretched them, though, another pair of dark secondaries dropped to the bedspread behind him.

A moment later, Aziraphale came into the room, handing Crowley a cup of tea and reaching around him, picking up the pair of fallen feathers and setting them neatly on the floor next to the bed. "Drink that, my dear," the angel told him. "It'll be good for you."

Bemused, Crowley took a drink, coughing a moment later as the alcohol hit his corporation's throat. "Really, angel?" he asked weakly.

Aziraphale nodded firmly. "Tea with brandy is supposed to put 'hair on your chest,'" he quoted. "So I figured it might help put feathers on your wings."

Crowley just smiled and shook his head, setting the cup aside on the nightstand. "Thanks, angel, but I think I'm alright."

Aziraphale clasped his hands nervously. "Sorry, my dear. I've just never done this before."

"Never helped anyone through molt before?" Crowley asked.

"Never molted with anyone," Aziraphale corrected. "I'm afraid I don't really know what will help."

Crowley ignored the warm feeling in his chest and patted the bed behind him. "I think there are a couple tertials that got stuck," he offered. "It would help to have someone sort of comb through and pull out the loose feathers."

Aziraphale looked relieved at the task and sat down heavily behind the demon, reaching quickly for his wings, though his fingers were light.

Crowley closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of Aziraphale gently combing through his wings. It was, he reflected, not all that different from the angel's fingers running through his hair or along his scales.

Aziraphale quickly worked the pair of loose tertials out, setting them neatly beside their fellows on the floor, before returning to his work.

Crowley's eyes wandered over the worn tertials, remembering another, just like them, which was still safely stowed just outside a Garden in Iran. Maybe he'd show it to Aziraphale. He had a feeling the angel would understand what it meant.

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before a thought occurred to Crowley.

"Angel," he said slowly. "Didn't Gabriel help you with your molt?"

Aziraphale's fingers paused for a moment before resumed motion. "Only once, my dear," he said easily. "And there were many other angels molting at the same time, so he didn't have much time for me."

"Once?"

"It was just after your Tower of Babel, my dear. When we had our first real conversation since the Garden."

Crowley hummed in acknowledgement. Then, "Aziraphale, do you mean you've been molting alone?" Crowley could barely ask the question, not really wanting the angel to confirm his suspicions.

"Yes," Aziraphale said quietly after a beat of silence.

Crowley turned around, careful not to hit Aziraphale with his wing, the angel's fingers slipping easily from his feathers. "Angel," he breathed. "Are you alright?"

Aziraphale looked surprised by the question. "Of course, my dear. I should be asking you the same thing. After all," he added gently, "it's nothing more than what you have been doing."

Crowley waved away his comment impatiently. "Yes, yes. But I'm a _demon_ , Aziraphale. I'm supposed to be alone. You--"

But Aziraphale interrupted him. " _My dear_ ," he breathed, reaching out and holding Crowley's face in his hands. "No, no, no, my dear," he whispered, leaning in and tipping his head so their foreheads were leaning against each other. "Never, my dear." His voice was quiet, but vehement. "You are _never_ supposed to be alone, my dear Crowley."

Crowley wrapped his hands around Aziraphale's wrists, holding his angel close. "You shouldn't be alone either, angel," he said, his voice rough.

"Never again," Aziraphale vowed.

"Never again," Crowley echoed.

They sat like that for nearly half an hour before Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, breaking contact.

"Are you alright?" Crowley asked, sitting back slightly, scrutinizing his angel.

"Fine, my dear," Aziraphale soothed him. "Just an ache in my wings." He rolled his shoulders and winced. "It'll pass in a bit. It usually does."

Crowley gave an amused snort and motioned with a finger for the angel to turn around.

Aziraphale looked confused and didn't move.

"C'mon, angel," Crowley told him, amusement still evident in his tone. "Turnabout's fair play, after all. And that goes double when you're in molt too."

Aziraphale still looked confused, but he began turning. "I'm not in molt, my dear. They just ache sometimes."

"Angel," Crowley told him, "we molt every thousand years, angels and demons alike. Trust me, you're molting."

"Really?" Aziraphale asked, a strange note in his voice.

When he manifested his wings, Crowley could understand why. They looked like they hadn't been groomed in centuries, dull, worn, white feathers sticking out haphazardly at every imaginable angle.

" _Angel_ ," Crowley said, concern strangling his voice to the point that the word was almost unrecognizable. He immediately began combing through Aziraphale's wings, loose feathers dropping around him like snowfall.

Aziraphale sighed happily, ignoring Crowley's exclamation. "That feels nice," he said.

Crowley cleared his throat. "When was the last time you looked at your wings, Aziraphale," he asked, dreading the answer.

Aziraphale cocked his head and Crowley could almost see the wrinkle between his eyebrows as the angel tried to remember. "Just after Bethlehem," he came up with finally. "Because you reminded me of them so I took a peek. There were feathers everywhere," he told Crowley. "So I put them back away quickly."

The demon finally let loose with the sigh that had been building since the angel's first words. "Angel," he said firmly. "There were lots of loose feathers because you've been molting without them manifested. When was the last time you properly molted?" He didn't want this answer either.

"Israel," the angel answered, more firmly this time. "Just after the Goliath debacle."

Aziraphale turned slightly, meeting Crowley's eyes. "I'm sorry if I made you worry, my dear," he said quietly. "I just couldn't stand doing it again, on Earth or in Heaven."

Crowley nodded roughly, and Aziraphale turned around again, settling himself back on the bed and relaxing into Crowley's ministration.

"Why didn't you want to molt in Heaven?" Crowley asked, a shower of longer coverlets brushing past his wrists on their way to the bedspread. He cleared his throat. "It sounded nice."

Aziraphale laughed lightly. "I wasn't sure you would remember that," he said. "But, Crowley--" He didn't turn this time, but he did reach back to touch Crowley gently on the side of his knee. "I was telling the truth; I didn't want to see any of them, even during molt. I'd much rather have been seeing you, even if my wings itched like nothing else."

Crowley laid his hand across Aziraphale's for a moment and squeezed gently before returning his fingers to the angel's wings.

"I'm glad you're here now, angel," he said quietly.

"I'm glad as well, my dear," Aziraphale said, the smile evident in his voice.

Soon, the white feathers would be stacked just as precisely next to their matching black fellows on the floor next to the bed. The bed itself would be occupied by an angel and a demon, both with freshly molted wings, as closely entwined as two beings could be.

And neither would molt alone again.

**Author's Note:**

> For my sister. May you never (metaphorically) molt alone.


End file.
